“Then Sam is winning. Across the years, he is beating them.”
“Yes, Renfrew. I feel this to be true.”
Nirriti glanced at the two guards who flanked Olvagga.
“Leave,” he ordered. Then, when they had gone,
“You know me?”
“Yes, chaplin. For I am Jan Olvegg, captain of the Star of India.”
“Olvegg. That seems moderately impossible.”
“True, nevertheless. I received this now ancient body the day Sam broke the Lords of Karma at Mahartha. I was there.”
“One of the First, and—yes!—a Christian!”
“Occasionally, when I run out of Hindi swear words.”
Nirriti placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then your very being must ache at this blasphemy they have wrought!”
“I’m none too fond of them—nor they of me.”
“I daresay. But of Sam—he did the same thing—compounding this plurality of heresies—burying the true Word even deeper . . .”
“A weapon, Renfrew,” said Olvegg. “Nothing more. I’m sure he didn’t want to be a god any more than you or I.”
“Perhaps. But I wish he had chosen a different weapon. If he wins their souls are still lost.”
Olvegg shrugged. “I’m no theologian, such as yourself . . .”
“But will you help me? Over the ages I have built up a mighty force. I have men and I have machines. You say our enemies are weakened. My soulless ones—born not of man or woman—they are without fear. I have sky gondolas—many. I can reach their City at the Pole. I can destroy their Temples here in the world. I think the time is at hand to cleanse the world of this abomination. The true faith must come again! Soon! It must be soon . . .”
“As I said, I’m no theologian. But I, too, would see the City fall,” said Olvegg. “I will help you, in any way I can.”
“Then we will take a few of their cities and defile their Temples, to see what action this provokes.”
Olvegg nodded.
“You will advise me. You will provide moral support,” said Nirriti, and bowed his head.
“Join me in prayer,” he ordered.
The old man stood for a long while outside the Palace of Kama in Khaipur, staring at its marble pillars. Finally, a girl took pity on him and brought him bread and milk. He ate the bread.
“Drink the milk, too, grandfather. It is nourishing and will help sustain thy flesh.”
“Damn!” said the old man. “Damn milk! And damn my flesh! My spirit, also, for that matter!”
The girl drew back. “That is hardly the proper reply upon the receipt of charity.”
“It is not your charity to which I object, wench. It is your taste in beverages. Could you not spare me a draught of the foulest wine from the kitchen? . . . That which the guests have disdained to order and the cook will not even slop over the cheapest pieces of meat? I crave the squeezings of grapes, not cows.”
“Perhaps I could bring you a menu? Depart! Before I summon a servant!”
He stared into her eyes. “Take not offense, lady, I pray. Begging comes hard to me.”
She looked into his pitch-dark eyes in the midst of a ruin of wrinkles and tan. His beard was streaked with black. The tiniest smile played about the corners of his lips.
“Well. . . follow me around to the side. I’ll take you into the kitchen and see what can be found. I don’t really know why I should, though.”
His fingers twitched as she turned, and his smile widened as he followed, watching her walk.
“Because I want you to,” he said.
Taraka of the Rakasha was uneasy. Flitting above the clouds that moved through the middle of the day, he thought upon the ways of power. He had once been mightiest. In the days before the binding there had been none who could stand against him. Then Siddhartha the Binder had come. He had known of him earlier, known of him as Kalkin and had known him to be strong. Sooner or later, he had realized, they would have to meet, that he might test the power of that Attribute which Kalkin was said to have raised up. When they had come together, on that mighty, gone day when the mountaintops had flared with their fury, on that day the Binder had won. And in their second encounter, ages afterward, he had somehow beaten him even more fully. But he had been the only one, and now he was gone from out the world. Of all creatures, only the Binder had bested the Lord of Hellwell. Then the gods had come to challenge his power. They had been puny in the early days, struggling to discipline their mutant powers with drugs, hypnosis, meditation, neurosurgery—forging them into Attributes—and across the ages, those powers had grown. Four of them had entered Hellwell, only four, and his legions had not been able to repel them. The one called Shiva was strong, but the Binder had later slain him. This was as it should be, for Taraka recognized the Binder as a peer. The woman he dismissed. She was only a woman, and she had required assistance from Yama. But Lord Agni, whose soul had been one bright, blinding flame—this one he had almost feared. He recalled the day Agni had walked into the palace at Palamaidsu, alone, and had challenged him. He could not stop that one, though he had tried, and he had seen the palace itself destroyed by the power of his fires. And nothing in Hellwell could stop him either. He had made a promise then to himself that he must test this power, as he had that of Siddhartha, to defeat it or be bound by it. But he never did. The Lord of Fires had fallen himself, before the One in Red—who had been the fourth in Hellwell—who had somehow turned his fires back upon him, that day beside the Vedra in the battle for Keenset. This meant that he was the greatest. For had not even the Binder warned him of Yama-Dharma, god of Death? Yes, the one whose eyes drink life was the mightiest yet remaining in the world. He had almost fallen to his strength within the thunder chariot. He had tested this strength once, briefly, but had relented because they were allies in that fight. It was told that Yama had died afterward, in the City. Later, it was told that he still walked the world. As Lord of the Dead it was said that he could not die himself, save by his own choosing. Taraka accepted this as a fact, knowing what this acceptance meant. It meant that he, Taraka, would return to the south, to the island of the blue palace, where the Lord of Evil, Nirriti the Black, awaited his answer. He would give his assent. Starting at Mahartha and working northward from the sea, the Rakasha would add their power to his dark own, destroying the Temples of the six largest cities of the southwest, one after another, filling the streets of those cities with the blood of their citizens and the nameless legions of the Black One—until the gods came to their defense, and so met their doom. If the gods failed to come, then their true weakness would be known. The Rakasha would then storm Heaven, and Nirriti would level the Celestial City; Milehigh Spire would fall, the dome would be shattered, the great white cats of Kaniburrha would look upon ruins, and the pavilions of the gods and the demigods would be covered with the snows of the Pole. And all of this for one reason, really—aside from relieving the boredom, aside from hastening the final days of gods and of men in the world of the Rakasha. Whenever there is great fighting and the doing of mighty deeds and bloody deeds and flaming deeds—he comes, Taraka knew—the One in Red comes from somewhere, always, for his Aspect draws him to the realm that is his. Taraka knew he would search, wait, do anything, for however long it took, until that day he stared into the black fires that burn behind the eyes of Death. . . .